Margaritas, Mayhem, and Messages

Two Jersey girls walk into a bar and order a margarita.  But it was no joke.  At least not for the bartender at Bua at 122 St. Marks Place in the East Village; she handled the patrons in this buzzing, cozy, brick-walled establishment with ease, laughing and conversing with them, all the time moving and working, multitasking with finesse.  It took her approximately 10 minutes to acknowledge Cindy and me, but it was well worth the wait.  I watched her prepare the drinks from a distance at the other end of the bar: lime juice from a plastic squeeze bottle which we prayed was real lime juice, Herradura, and a short squirt of agave.  She gave it two quick shakes and served it with a straw in a tall glass filled with ice and rimmed with flaky sea salt.  These top-shelf margaritas at first sip were tart, crisp, and clean as a Granny Smith apple, but after the second sip I was able to suck it down like it was merely lemonade. I finished it too quickly, as I was thirsty from our hot sunny walk from the subway station.  The slight heady buzz was worth the $13 plus tip.

 Our next stop was Empellon on 105 First Avenue but, alas, we arrived there too early.  They didn’t open until 5:30 and so we had an hour to kill - but not to worry.  We took a walk to Avenue B, passing the gorgeous Tompkins Square Park on the way, filled with fuchsia rosebushes, Congo drums beating somewhere in the distance.  Our next stop was to be a small Mexican restaurant but upon arriving there, the restaurant was clearly abandoned - dark and empty, graffiti on the windows.  Our hearts sank; our quest for the best margarita in the East Village was on a downward spiral.  “But wait”, I said, checking the spreadsheet Cindy had created, “This isn’t the right address”.  We needed 179 Avenue B, not 170.  And there ahead of us, across the street, was the name Mercadito – clearly they had moved on to a bigger and better location, and what a little gem this place was, all décor, atmosphere, and upbeat music.  And happy hour on a Saturday!  As we were seated at a table, we were not able to observe the making of the margarita, but I did glimpse the bartender shaking the drinks to the beat of the salsa music.  These drinks arrived in short salt-rimmed glasses along with a small dish of guacamole and chips.  Divine all around.  I sensed a bit of sweet and sour mix or possibly triple sec in these drinks as they were ever so slightly sweet, and halfway through finishing it, I clearly was starting to feel the alcohol.  We then ordered a second round along with fish tacos and I could feel these margaritas had the potential to knock me off my feet, and I was glad we were eating.  The fish tacos were absolutely delicious so we then ordered a plate of shrimp tacos.  These tacos were simply some of the most flavorable (I know that’s not actually a word) foods I have ever eaten, and hands down the best $5 margarita(s) you will probably ever find. 

 Clearly someone was cheering for us!

Since we spent a good deal of time at Mercadito, it was time to head back to Empellon as their doors were now open for business.  In our research for the best margaritas in East Village, this place was voted number one for “Classic Margarita”.  Upon entering, at first I felt slightly intimidated, as this clearly was an upscale place and we were dressed casually, but we were warmly greeted and shown to the bar area.  The bartender was a slight and pale but very friendly man who set to work on our margaritas right in front of us.  Lime juice, tequila, and agave.  His shaking technique was interesting; very slow at first and then he rocked it hard.  There were three plates of fine sea salt in varying muted colors and he first rimmed our glasses on a fresh orange slice.  Somewhat to my disappointment, he only used one of the salts on our glasses, but then I saw he rimmed only one side, covering approximately half an inch down the side of the glass, and he got points for that little bit of creativity.   Cindy and I were getting texts from our husbands that they were now in the area and were on their way to meet us for dinner, so I knew our little tequila-laden adventure was soon to end.  We enjoyed these margaritas and the environment and the friendly banter of the bartender.  I asked him the ingredients for the drink, just to confirm:  lime juice, tequila, and agave.  And again: lime juice, tequila, and agave.  That’s it.  Pure and simple.  End of story. The classiest classic margarita you will ever have will be at Empellon. 

 

The Classiest

All told, we had five margaritas that day, the last one being at Hearth, the restaurant where we went for dinner.  It was as good as all the prior ones but at that point I almost had to force it down! 

So, what did I learn from this little foray into the world of lime and tequila?  Well, if you want a syrupy sweet limey drink or a frozen concoction, you’ll have to visit your local sports bar or chain restaurant.  They’ll have none of that here in the East Village.  The one regret of the day was that we did not have time to visit The Wayland, where their “garden variety margaritas” are infused with kale ginger juice, but there will be other sunny summer days when the thirst for tart and tequila will eventually bring us to that spot.

Mean Green

My sister-in-law and I recently joined an organic farm/weekly local produce club and we should start to get the produce just after spring begins.  I bought a juicer to make sure we use up all the produce my husband and I might not be able to eat before it goes bad.  Coincidentally, just after ordering the juicer, I watched the documentary Fat, Sick, & Nearly Dead – not knowing what it was about at first – but turns out it was about two men who went on a juice fast ~ one of them for 60 days having nothing but “mean green juice” and water.  He lost a ton of weight and was able to stop taking steroid medication he had been taking for a chronic autoimmune disorder which caused him to break out into hives.  The second guy also lost a lot of weight and was able to go off his cholesterol medication. 

The documentary also reinforced how crazy awful the American diet has become.  Supersized soda.  Boxed processed meals.  Lunchables.  Chemical ingredients.  It’s touted as quick and convenient, but personally, I think it’s just sheer laziness. Americans are sorely lacking vital nutrients that fend off disease.   But, has the American diet become this way because of the laziness, or is the laziness because of all the quick boxed convenience? 

Knowing full well I would not withstand a 60-day juice fast, I wanted the mini-experience.  Last weekend I attempted a two-day juice fast.  I found a “menu” for a weekend juice plan that included recipes for four drinks a day.  I spent approximately $40 on fruits and vegetables. I enjoy new gastronomic experiences, so I was actually looking forward to this but the thought of no solid food for two days was actually quite daunting.  I made and drank every drink on the plan, but towards the end of both days I was shaky and starving, and had to eat a lean protein and some steamed vegetables.  I felt great after the two days, and did lose two pounds.  Since then, I have been trying to make at least one juice a day – even my husband drinks the “mean green”!

Carrot Pineapple Chili Juice

Orange Berry Smoothie

The makings of Mean Green Juice

Mean Green: chock full of micro-nutrients!

  If life gives you lemons, make some kind of fruity juice. ~ Conan O'Brien

Do-Over

If you had a chance for a do-over....

We often say: I wish I could do it over, knowing what I know now.  No doubt the outcome would be different?   But - what if you didn’t know what you know now?

I recently saw The Vow. Woman in a car accident, brain trauma, couldn’t remember a 5-year block of her life, including meeting, falling in love, and marrying her husband.   Her husband had to court her all over again, to try to make her fall in love with him again, without knowing if the outcome would be the same, if she would or even could ever love him again.  A daunting task.

If you had a chance to do it all over again, would you do it the same way?  It’s one thing to be able to do it over “knowing what you know now”, but, what if you didn’t know?  What if you couldn’t learn from your mistakes, because you couldn’t remember them?   What if you couldn’t rely on good memories to help you through the tough times, because there were no memories, good or bad?    What if doing it over didn’t feel like doing it over?   Would the do-over have the same outcome as the original happenings?

The Vow was based on a true story…but I won’t reveal how it ends.

“If I had it all to do over again, I would do most all things differently. However, how would I know that if, I had not had the opportunity to do them the first time.” ~Janice Markowitz

Hedy Stuff

Award shows.  The glamour.  The glitz.  The dream.  Escape from reality. 

The Academy Awards show is on tonight, and I can’t wait to watch.  I will imbibe in red wine and red carpet satire.  I will be in awe of the gorgeous and gasp at the poorly attired.  My eyes will be blinded by the borrowed bling.

I’ve always loved the idea of Hollywood, especially Old Hollywood.  Hedy Lamarr was once quoted as saying “Any girl can look glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.”   While I believe any girl can look glamorous, it does not come hand in hand with stupidity or flightiness or shallowness. What was Hedy thinking?  Why can’t we be both glamorous and intelligent?

I could use some inspiration to unleash my inner Gaga.  Maybe the golden Oscar will inspire me.  I’ve been feeling dowdy lately, lackluster.  I have a case of the winter blahs.  (I think I have blogged of this before? I must have a recurrent case of the winter blues.)  I need to get out of my comfort zone.  I feel a spring makeover coming on.  A hair appointment is already scheduled…

But for now, tonight, I will just watch.

I think people feel starved of nice, glamorous entertainment. They want to see costumes and gaiety and a singer; old-fashioned entertainment - it won't die easily. ~ Ronnie Corbett

Va Va Voom

I recently went bra shopping with a friend.  Not the most fun thing in the world; it’s quite distressing, actually.  And we both seemed to have some of the same problems in trying to find one that fit, even though we are on complete opposite ends of the bra anatomy scale:  her cup runneth over, while mine is only half full.

We women are miraculous creatures.  We multitask like no man is able.  We give birth to new life.  Our bodies are interesting and complex.  We have the same anatomy, but no two bodies are ever quite the same. Trying to find a bra that fits that anatomy comfortably and does the job it’s supposed to do (while still being a cute undergarment) is quite an impossible task.  I dare say it’s even harder than finding the perfect pair of jeans.

Damn the bra, and the inventor of such. It shapes.  It molds.  It lifts.  It pinches.  It binds.  There are soft cup, minimizers, push-up, padded, underwire, bandeau, convertible, demi cup, and shelf bras, just to name a few.  You not only have to deal with the band size, there is also the cup size.  What’s a woman to do?  Next time I’m out there shopping for an over-the-shoulder-boulder holder, I think I will return to the boutique where my friend finally found her true size.  The sales women wear measuring tapes around their neck and they seemed to know their bras inside and out.

The bra as a garment has quite a bit of history (check it out on Wikipedia) and its evolution had significant social impacts, including oppression, sexism, and feminism.  And we owe it all to Herminie Cadolle, the inventor of the modern day bra in 1889.  Her boutique still exists in Paris, The Cadolle Company, and it is still family-owned.  The store claims today that Herminie ‘freed women by inventing the first bra.’  Most women these days would deny that a bra was "freeing", but compared to a corset, I can see the truth in it. 

"You know it's a bad day when you put your bra on backwards and it fits better."  -author unknown

Shoe Envy

Dear Shoe Gods: Please help me find a pretty pair of platform sandals that has heels less than 6-inches high. I just want a kicky pair of casual summer high-heeled shoes that give me enough height to make me feel important and visible and just a little bit better than everyone else, but that won’t make me topple over head-first when walking down an incline or sprain my ankle as I turn my head to smile at the construction guys who whistle when I walk by.

Right - who am I kidding? I am 41-going-on-42 for God’s sake. And I haven’t been whistled at since who knows when, six-inch heels or not. But have you seen the shoes these days? They are fierce, with your choice of wedge, spike, or platform heels that range from four and a half to 12 inches high! Seriously. I read an article that in this time of recession, extreme high heels are a form of escapism for women. And some men, too, I suppose. But honestly, how can you get through an entire day walking in them? Three catwalk models dropped out of a fashion show because they were required to wear 12-inch heels. No lie.

But I did find a delectable pair of shoes online that had only four-and-a-half-inch heels with a one-inch platform and the reviews on Zappos were impeccable. I received them last night and as soon as I opened the box I laughed and knew I must have been quite delusional when I ordered them. Crazy girl. Whose Kool-Aid were you drinking? You are not Lindsay Lohan clubbing it up at Chateau Marmont every night. You are not a 31-year-old fashionista with a reputation to uphold. You are a woman who works 9 to 5 each day and then some. You are a woman with an ache in her left hip and a pain in her right foot. You are a woman who aspires to vacuum the house more than once a week but knows it will never happen.

But damn, did those shoes look good on my feet! And for a minute they did give me enough height to make me feel important and visible and just a little bit better than everyone else. Ah, escapism!

But sadly, I must now send those precocious shoes packing, back from whence they came. And the search continues…

These shoes are much more dangerous than they appear to the human eye.

Funny that a pair of really nice shoes make us feel good in our heads - at the extreme opposite end of our bodies. ~Levende Waters

Tapastry

Here are a few shots from our delicious Spanish appetizer feast the other day!

Cherry tomatoes stuffed with crab salad and olive tapenade

Fresh tuna salad with capers

The hit of the night was sliced baguette topped with melted manchego cheese and carmelized onions.

Tips for a great white sangria:  2 bottles pinot grigio, quarter cup brandy, quarter cup orange or apple liquor, tons of fresh fruit, half cup simple syrup, and refrigerate overnight.

Our next event:  French appetizers

Foodie

Getting together this weekend with some friends to have a tapas party. Food. All kinds of little foods. Lots of little tiny foods with big flavors. So, I get to eat a lot of little food.

A lot of food. The chorizo. The olives. The shrimp. The scallops. Grilled asparagus wrapped in Serrano ham. And did I mention the sangria?

I wonder sometimes why food excites me so much? I am heading out to Wegman’s on my lunch hour to shop for the tapas dishes I will be preparing and I am excited beyond belief. The produce aisle. The seafood. The bread.

So tomorrow afternoon, the girls will be preparing all sorts of foodstuff while the guys will be downstairs, practicing for their first surf music gig in a year.  I wonder how that will go….cooking Spanish-inspired food while listening to Dick Dale-inspired music?

Food…I even wrote a poem about it a while ago. Here is the abbreviated version:

Comfort Food

What does it mean when
Coffee is more comforting
than an embrace,
And wine more than words?

On a cold winter’s night
Mashed potatoes
Osso buco
That’s all I need.

Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity. ~Voltaire

Frogger

If I can make my 40-minute commute to work each morning unscathed, I consider myself lucky. Driving in New Jersey is hazardous to your health. It causes rapid heart beat and palpitations. It causes stroke-like symptoms of numbness and brain fog.

Yesterday morning I was almost T-boned.

I didn’t even have time to blast my horn. I literally had only seconds to swerve into the lane of oncoming traffic to avoid his front end from slamming into my passenger side. I was saved only by the fact there was no oncoming traffic in those few seconds. I was shaken and flabbergasted! Especially when I looked in my rear view mirror after returning to my own lane, and the guy was steadily making his turn, not batting an eye. No hesitation or braking. Just going where he wanted to go. There was a stop sign right in front of his face but of course it wasn’t meant for him.

Driving in New Jersey you always have to be on the defensive. You have to know there are people out there driving who should not be driving. There are people without car insurance. There are people without driver’s licenses. There are people who have failed driving tests. But they just keep on truckin’.

Inconsideration. Inconsideration and a real-time game of Frogger. That’s what you get when driving in the great Garden State.

Automobiles are not ferocious.... it is man who is to be feared. ~Robbins B. Stoeckel

Devil's Food

Last week I embarked on a “clean eating” plan. Eat no processed food. Eat from the earth. If man created it, do not eat it. In theory, it was a good idea, and great for my health. And I was able to do it for three days, until someone at work shoved a chocolate covered donut down my throat.

Okay, so she didn’t shove it down my throat. But she did pick up the Entenmanns’s box from the food table I had managed to avoid all day, carry it to my desk during the three o’clock danger hour, and hold the box of glossy-chocolate sugary-smelling orbs in front of my face. That’s equivalent to holding a gun to my head and making me eat it. That’s even worse than the devilish serpent offering me fruit from the forbidden tree - because at least eating from the tree of forbidden fruit would have been “eating clean”.

There’s food everywhere. How do you escape it? I just now found out Entenmann’s is even in my spellchecker. I had it spelled wrong. How do brand names of processed food products end up in Microsoft’s spellchecker? Food is everywhere. You cannot escape it.

So I have decided to still eat clean - at least 75% of the time. That is practical. That is doable. At least I think it is.

High-tech tomatoes. Mysterious milk. Supersquash. Are we supposed to eat this stuff? Or is it going to eat us? ~Annita Manning

So Long

Goodbye Michael. Goodbye Walter. Goodbye Farah.

Goodbye Jon. Goodbye Kate. Goodbye plus-eight.

Goodbye Guiding Light. Goodbye Dirty Sexy Money. Goodbye Lipstick Jungle.

Goodbye Circuit City. Goodbye Pontiac. Goodbye Starbucks on every corner.

Goodbye two-salary households. Goodbye savings account. Goodbye George Bush.

Goodbye property tax rebates. Goodbye Homestead rebates. Goodbye Jon Corzine.

Goodbye 2009.

Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us. ~Hal Borland

The Cat Ate My Homework

Recently our cat Susie has been crazy hungry. She has a thyroid issue and extreme thirst and hunger are part of the symptoms, and she has been on medication for it quite a few years. But lately something has really gotten into her. She is cat, dog, and mouse all at the same time.

She begs for food while my husband and I are eating dinner. I thought it was fun at first, letting her sample from my plate after I was done, to see what she would eat - onions, broccoli, tomato vodka sauce. She ate it all. But now I push her away from my plate, regretting having started that bad habit.

There was a loaf of cranberry bread on our table, still in the pan and covered with aluminum foil. I had to chase her off the table after I caught her trying to scratch away the foil to see what was underneath. A few hours later I heard a crash and a tinny-sounding muffle. I came downstairs and there it was, loaf pan knocked to the floor, crumbs and nuts and cranberries skewed all over, Susie the cat munching away.

That next day I was taking a pumpkin pie out of the oven, and was just about to set it on the table to cool, but then there she was, hopping right up on the chair, her nose sniffing the cinnamon air, and I knew what was bound to happen were I to leave the pie there to cool. So, I lifted it high on the top of the refrigerator, almost spilling the hot mushy goodness in the process.

While food shopping Sunday morning I had picked up a loaf of “yoga bread” for a friend to try, and had it sitting on the landing by our front door so my husband would remember to drop it off to her. The next morning I awoke early and went downstairs to feed that hungry begging bugger of a cat, and what did I see? The plastic bread bag gnawed open, crusty crumbs all over the place.

Let me tell you, she’s damn lucky she’s cute.

Over the weekend my dashboard light for “check tire pressure” came on. Finally on Tuesday morning on my way to work I stopped at my trusted, tried, and true gas station to put air in my tires. I parked, grabbed a couple quarters from my console, got out into the brisk morning air and took the cap off the tire valve, grabbed and untangled the always-tangled dirty tubing and turned to put my money in the air machine and then I saw it. A tiny note taped to the machine – “out of order”.

Later that same day on my lunch hour I went to the ATM to deposit a check. I pulled up and the screen was black and guess what? Out of order. The whole bank was out of order, actually. They had a power failure for no apparent reason.

It reminded me of a show I used to watch – I think it was on ShowTime. The main character was played by Eric Stoltz and on each and every episode there was a point where he was trying to accomplish some task or errand and inevitably when he went to do it, there it was, a sign that read “out of order”. The show was actually called Out of Order. I thought it was a great show, but it only ran for one season.

Recently my life has been out of order, as much as everyone’s has been this past year or so to some extent or another. I am glad the year is coming to a close. Winter is the perfect excuse to hibernate from the world, curl up with a big book and mug of peppermint tea and dream of spring, and sun, and newness. Rebirth.

Rebirth. Like my irises. They are blooming in December. Even Mother Nature is out of order.


“The elevator to success is out of order. You'll have to use the stairs... one step at a time.” ~Joe Girard

Hi Honey, I'm Home!

What’s wrong in the world when the wife gets up in the morning and goes to work, while the husband and his friends go hang out at Starbucks?

This recession has really flip-flopped things. Women have become the breadwinners. Statistics show it, and I have seen it my own world.

Is it wrong of me to want to go back to the 1950s? Wearing a cotton dress each day with a cute frilly apron. Luncheons with the ladies. Game of pinochle anyone? Bridge, perhaps? Keeping house. Starching a shirt collar or two.  Bonbons at 3, only for me....

...Sweetly idling the day away until it came time to have the husband's cocktail ready in hand and kiss ass the minute he walks through the door after a hard day’s work?

“I have too many fantasies to be a housewife. I guess I am a fantasy.”
~Marilyn Monroe

Missing in Action

I have been amiss. Absolutely awry. Absent without leave. I have been utterly uninspired, desperately devoid of the wizardry of the written word. And I missed alliterating. I missed the clever coaptation, the busy bungled banter, the echo of the erstwhile esoteric etchings of pen on paper….

But I am back. Expect great things.

At least until the next case of writer’s block.

Ah, but I must confess. It hasn’t been so much writer’s block as it is just that I’ve been busy.

My brother recently bought a house, and a friend and I have been helping him decorate. Well, so far all we’ve actually done is bought and hung curtains in every room of his house, while waiting for him to paint all the rooms so we can begin the actual “decorating”. It has been well over a month. I would have had the whole house painted by now. He has only painted the dining room.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a beautiful dining room - three coats of garnet on the walls, and two coats of deliciously creamy color on the trim and crown molding. But come on already! We want to design on a dime, shop for accessories, and hang wall art, and we can’t do that until the colors are in place and the mood is set.

Paint party, anyone?

"You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we're doing it.” ~Neil Gaiman

Help! I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up

My husband was just approved by our insurance company to get a CPAP machine. Continuous Positive Airway Pressure. It’s for his sleep apnea, which causes a horrible snoring problem. Not so much a problem for him, but a problem for me. He sleeps right through it while I sneak off to the guest room in search of peace in the deep dark deluge of the night.

But soon I will be sleeping with a masked man. That could be exciting…? Or is it just the sign of the times - the beginning of the end. Doomsday is upon us. And it all starts with durable medical equipment in my bedroom.

Middle age.

But don’t worry; it will happen to you too - if it hasn’t already. The men in our lives will soon be buying thick gold chains and wearing their shirts half unbuttoned, with gabardine pants and orthopedic shoes. I am already praying for no comb-overs. (Please, God?) Before we know it, it will be time to put a down payment on a single level condo unit in a retirement community. Prunes will become a dietary staple. My friends and I will buy each other Life Alerts for birthday presents.

So, yes, I will be sleeping with a masked man, and although it is not the masked man of comic books and super hero marvels, at least it’s just in time for Halloween.

“The really frightening thing about middle age is the knowledge that you'll grow out of it.”
~Doris Day

We're Not in Kansas

Whenever I’m feeling low blue sad fat ugly….I just take a little trip to the local Wal-Mart store and do some people watching and then I don’t feel so bad.

Flat hair and grey teeth and spikes, oh my!

The person in front of me at the check-out was buying a cart full of sugar-coated cereal and cartons of cigarettes. One hundred and twenty-one dollars’ worth. That’ll keep the old heart ticking.

And I swear I saw a woman four feet wide.

"Well, we're not living in a trailer park, so we'll be all right."
~Dorothy

Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes

Dear Lottery Gods:

I bought two tickets for tonight’s drawing. I am asking for your help to win. I am not greedy. I am not searching for mega-millions. Just a few hundred thousand will do. Or even a few thousand - just a little something to ease the pain. A little Jersey Cash, if you will.

Yes, I know, money can’t buy you love but I already have that. And I know money is the root of all evil but I am good. I am a hard worker who has just grown weary and tired. I have a husband who was laid off earlier this year. We have a small modest house with a big gigantic mortgage. Our attic needs insulation. Our kitchen needs a new ceiling, among other things. Our windows need new…windows. We have no fun money and therefore we have become…un-fun. We cancelled a trip to our nation’s capital. We never go out anymore. We sit at home and make faces at each other for entertainment. We watch The History Channel.

So….please?

Okay.
Thanks.
Bye.

"The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it."
~Edith Wharton

Doctor! Doctor!

I haven’t been to the doctor in a while, a few years at least. My husband has been bugging me to make an appointment. I have had the office number sitting on my desk for the past three to four weeks and still I have not called for an appointment. I should have my blood work done. I should have my heartbeat checked. I should have my body poked and prodded for irregular lumps and bumps.

But I don’t wanna go to the doctor!

I cannot even remember the last time I had a cold. My cholesterol levels have always been perfect. I don’t have any illnesses or diseases to speak of. I am not on any medications. I don’t get infections. I exercise. I eat right. I do not smoke.

I do get headaches. I have tightness in my shoulders. I have an aching in my left hip that occasionally flares up. But to me, these are just the normal everyday aches and pains of life that do not require a doctor’s visit. And I get PMS just like every other woman. Well, maybe I have PMS a little worse than other women. If I were on a trial jury where the accused was a woman who killed her husband, no matter what her defense was I would vote “not guilty by reason of PMS”. So, okay, maybe I have very bad PMS. Maybe I have PMDD – premenstrual dysphoric disorder, which is what I self-diagnosed two or three years ago. I have tried every natural remedy from St. John’s Wort to mega doses of calcium and organic mangosteen juice, all to no avail. It is probably time to go see a professional.

But I don’t wanna go to the doctor!


"The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease." ~Voltaire

I have PMS and a handgun, any questions?

Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’

Last night I was searching on the internet for the correct spelling of a drug (for those of you that don’t know, I moonlight as a medical transcriptionist) and I came across a message board with references to rolling, taking a bean, and pre- and post-loading with herbal supplements. Upon further reading, I realized it was a message board about taking ecstasy and how to get the most out of it. And there I sat, a 41-year-old female barefoot at my desk at home in New Jersey at 8:30 in the evening on a Thursday night suddenly wishing I had tried it just once. Rolling.

Never having really delved into the big bad world of drugs, other than the one or two non-inhaling Bill-Clinton-like experiences or popping the occasional Percocet that wasn’t prescribed to me, I wondered how my life would have been different if I had.  I know many people with a past history in that that big bad world, hardcore addicts and recreational users, and I see them now and their lives seem just fine - great, in fact. They live in lush tropical lands. They have children and wives and productive jobs. They are beautiful as supermodels.

And there I sat, a 41-year-old female barefoot at my desk at home in New Jersey at 8:30 in the evening on a Thursday night suddenly wondering.

I wondered if this was just another rite of passage I had missed out on, growing up in the small safe world that I did? Would I appreciate my life that much more, had I had that battle or another to overcome? If it is our experiences that form us, what happens when we lack those experiences? Or is it simply just that some people float and flitter through life, smelling the flowers, tasting the nectar, while others trudge through it like it is one big snow drift after another?

"Actually I don't remember being born, it must have happened during one of my black outs."
~Jim Morrison

(Note: I do not in any way advocate drug use nor am I attempting to glamorize it. I have seen first-hand the damage it can do.)